The Girl for the Debt
by AkiiRawrz
Summary: The beautiful game turned into a depiction of a beautiful scene on the big screen. Everything here belongs to the creators of the game. This is just my depiction of what the movie would be like. READ AND ENJOY! SPOILERS IF YOU HAVE NOT PLAYED THE GAME
1. Losing it all

_Hey guys! This a new thing I started. This is a movie idea, so things from the game will be repeated, but I'm going to try to make something different out of it for a cool experience. The first chapter did not happen, but I hope you like it! This is my depiction of what the movie would be like if it were one. I picked Charlie Hunnam to play Booker, but whoever you want is cool! Hope you enjoy!_

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"You sure know how to deal cards, Mr. DeWitt." The man with the top hat stared at the young man with green eyes tentatively. Booker DeWitt sat at the poker table, staring at the smug man. He'd played withy his man before. He knew all his moves, his weak spots. Booker had this guy done for the count. The familiar gambler smiled his thin lipped smile, lighting a cigarette. "You want one?" He asked Booker. The lean man nodded.

The man with the top hat handed him a cigar. Booker popped it in his mouth, looking at his hand. It was a decent hand, but he could see by the too hat mans smile he had a good one as well. Everyone had a tale, and Booker learned to figure it out fairly quickly. Top hat took off his hat to reveal his slicked black hair. He was an older man, much older than Booker was. He had a scar leading up his left eyes, and his body was as muscular as bookers. He was also a war veteran, but of a different sector than him.

Booker cleared his throat, staring up at the man. They played for several hours, constantly one uping each other. Finally, at the last few hands, Booker thought he had it. He put up all he had. But once he laid down his cards, the too hat man laid down a royal flush, beating him. Booker stared with large eyes, dumbfounded. That was his entire money to last him for months. He thought he could win. Booker cursed himself, rolling his eyes. The top hat man smiled grimly, taking the cash.

"Sorry Mr. DeWitt. You've been a pleasure playing with."

He walked off, leaning Booker to stare in disbelief. He sat at the bar, drowning himself in several bottles of whiskey. The bartender cut him off, but Booker lingered for a while. He didn't want to go home. But he knew he had to. He walked out the door, walking down to his office. When he arrived, a young woman walked towards him. "This is the last time, Mr. DeWitt," She grumbled. Te man nodded, watching her leave. His office was small and dirty. His desk was cluttered with many different files and papers. The walls were filled with grime, and the wallpaper was peeling off the walls.

He sat at his desk, sighing deeply. Tonight was the bullshit, He thought, I could have won. The man with the scar was always there and played the same way. But tonight it changed. He was hustled. There was a loud sound from the room to the right of him. He had forgotten a about it. He walked towards the door, but before he could open it, there was a knock at the door. He opened it, and a man stood there. "Mr. DeWitt, it has come to our attention that you haven't paid off your debts to us," The large man said.

Booker swallowed, looking down at the ground. "You said by the end of the week." The man chuckled, pointing to the colander. "It is the end of the week." Booker cursed under his breath. He looked around the room, trying to find a way out of this. These people were not the kind of people you want to mess with. He had never been this scared and nervous before. There was a stillness to the air, except dr the sound in the side room. "We will decide what to do with you. If you don't have the money by tomorrow... Let's just say it'll be hell to pay," The man said.

His hands clenched and I clenched, as if to intimidate him. Which it did. Booker nodded, beads of sweat rolling down his face. The man left the office in a huff. Booker grumbled, sliding down the door with a huff. He sat on the floor, looking over at the side door. He felt tears wet his eyes, but he refused to cry. Only fools cried. Fools who were scared. Fear was also for fools. Instead, he resorted to the only thing he knew. Alcohol. He drank away his problems for that day, not even caring that he owed money. Not even caring about his debts. And not even caring about what lie behind the door.


	2. Always a Lighthouse

Booker awoke abruptly, the sounds of the morning New York society roaring through the walls. He got up slowly, having fallen asleep on his desk. He grumbled, fumbling around for a cigarette. His entire body ached, and he felt whiskey still in the back of his throat. The smoke filled his lungs, and as he exhaled he felt the familiar taste lingering. The silence in the office was erie, but it was nothing he wasn't used to. The memory of the night the before as a blur to him, but the alcohol wasn't so friendly. Business was slow this morning, so Booker had a lot of time to think. He remembered a beautiful woman he used to be so close to. She was the only one who understood her. She's been gone for a whole now, and her memory was a blur to him. Everything was a blur. A goddamn blur.

At thirty-eight, Booker had no good sense of memory at all. He cleared his throat, sucking more smoke, this time letting it linger a bit longer. There was a loud knock at the door once again, and Booker groaned. He didn't feel like entertaining any guests or clients today. "Come in!" He called. A young man entered the room, but his face was hidden by a hood. "Hello, Mr. DeWitt." His voice was soft but menacing. Booker stared at the man, trying to see his face. He did very well to hide himself, and tried hard to keep his identity hidden. "What?" Booker asked, irritatedly. The man stepped forward, and Booker could see the thin smirk on his lips. "You have a massive amount of money you owe, am I correct?" The man asked.

Bookers eyes stared at the hooded man with intensity. How did he know? How did he know whom I was? Booker's mind rambled about who this man was, and how he knew him. "So what if I do?" Bookers chest rose, asserting any dominance he had over the small, thin figure before him. The mans smirk turned into a calm expression that even Booker couldn't describe. It was almost unemotional and unreadable. "I have a way that I can help you," He said. Booker relaxed his shoulders, rolling up his sleeves. "Go on," He spoke, gruffly. The man nodded, his feet planted on the floor. "I want to make a deal with you, Mr. DeWitt. A deal that I know you'll be most pleased with." The large man watched the hooded figure with curious eyes. He folded his arms across his chest, raised an eyebrow.

The man never took off his hood, but Booker caught a small glimpse of some of his features. He was a small, petite young male. His hair was either blonde or red, and his eyes were light. He had an unemotional smile, that even Bookers could be considered sweet. The man was an intelligent sort, but he had a air about him as a manipulator. Booker wasn't one to be manipulated easily, but he was a good manipulator himself. The man opened his thin lips, speaking words that would forever haunt Booker for the rest of his life.

"Bring us the girl, and you're debt will be forgotten. Bring us the girl, and wipe away the debt." Bookers shoulders almost trembled at the words. He opened his mouth to speak, but no words came out. Those words sounded so familiar to him. They rang out in his ears like a memory or an evil flashback. Foreshadowing that of which would come to pass in a few short hours. The man walked forward, striding to Booker. He lifted his hand, and Booker felt immediate pain. His eyes fluttered, and with a thud, his massive body clambered to the floor.

He didn't remember waking up. Nor did he remember being instructed to do anything. Booker sat in a boat, looking down at his feet. His mind knew where he was going, but it wasn't as much as he would've wanted. The idea was implanted into his very brain. "Bring us the girl and wipe away the debt." His lips mumbled those words over and over again, silently. Those were the only words he could muster for half the ride. Two people sat on the boat with him, but they didn't speak to him that often. They spoke to themselves, ranting about things Booker didn't know. When they got closer to the destination, one of them handed him a box. On it was engraved with his name, and 'leader of the seventh cavalry'. His eyes wandered the letters.

He remembered the war only vaguely. Why now did he forget such a critical part of his life? He blinked at the box, but soon slowly started to open it. Inside was a pistol, some sort of password, and a picture of a girl. On it read instructions for him to bring her back to New York unharmed. Simple enough, he thought to himself. Stuff those things into his pockets, he sat back for the ride. The two people chatted on front of him, but he ignored it. "Almost there?" He asked, gruffly. "I suppose so," The male said. The female bantered back something that seemed playful, but Booker could really care less. The male sounded familiar, but not familiar enough. The boat docked at a large lighthouse that loomed over the sea like a beacon in the night. Booker took a deep breath, climbing the stairs to the right of him.

The two started to row away, and Booker turned to them. "Is someone meeting me here?" He called out to them. "I sure hope so. Sure seems like the worst place to be stranded," The female said. Booker rolled his eyes, walking towards the light house. The door had a note for him. "Bring us the girl..." DeWitt read, his lips murmuring those fatal words again. He opened the door, and walking inside the lighthouse. There was nothing special about it, only the two lagers before walking into the platform of the lighthouse itself. But walking onto te second platform, Bookers nerves were on its end. A body of a man sat, slumped in a chair. There was blood dripping down the chair, and stains on his chest. A bag was shoved over his head, with the words "don't disappoint us" written on it.

"Shit," Booker mumbled under his breath. He walked into the last platform, going to the door of the lighthouse. There were three bells in a specific order like it was on the paper he found in the box. He rang the bells in the order it was read, and the cloud became blood red. He stared, confused until the door opened, and a fancy, barber shop chair appeared. "Am I going to get a haircut?" He mumbled, smirking a bit. He slowly say down, looking around solemnly. "What now-" His voice as cut short as shackles locked around his wrists and ankles, and walls lifts up around him. He was now in a rocket ship.

A metallic voice counted down, and the rocket fired up. The chair was lowered, making Booker lose his gun. "Well, shit." Everything was happening so fast and it was making his head pound. When the rocket took off, it was the first time in a whole he had been genuinely frightened. Until he saw the beautiful city. It was a city unlike anything he's ever seen before. A city in the sky, he though. "Huh," he mumbled. The rocket ascended down into some kind of sewer. He stepped out from the rocket, his heart slowing down. He swallowed, dusting off his vest. Clearing his throat, he recomposes himself, and walks through the watery pathway. A plaque above him looked over as he stepped through. "The seed of the prophet..." He read, clicking his tongue. Whatever the hell that means, He thought. He met a strange man in a long robe standing by an open pathway leading to stairs. "Mind telling me where I am?"

"Heaven. Or as close as well see 'till judgment day."

Booker nodded, walking away from the man. "Best not ask so many questions 'less I wanna get made," He mumbled to himself. The staircase led to a large area with water gushing past him. A crowd of people stood together at the end, surrounding a priest who stood in the middle of a pool of water. Booker approached the crowd, gentle pushing through. "Is it someone new?" The priest called. "I just need passage into the city." Booker's voice was convincing, but the priest just chuckled. "Passage? Son, the only way into Columbia is rebirth in the sweet waters of baptism." Booker sighed, looking up at the blind priest. He nodded, stepping towards the man. He grabbed him roughly, which caused Booker to tense up. The priest shoved him under the water, and when he was pulled back up, he stared at him with his lifeless eyes. "I don't know about you, brothers, but this one doesn't look clean to me," He said. Before Booker could resist, he as being shoved back under the water and everything went black again.


	3. The Raffle

The images were all so real. The fire burned at Bookers throat, sending smoke trough his lungs. He coughed, but it wasn't from the fire. It was from something else deep within him. New York burned. Zeppelins rained down on his city from the sky. Booker awoke abruptly, coughing up water from his lungs. I slowly got to his feet, and he was surrounded by three statues of the founding fathers. Thomas Jefferson, George Washington, and Thomas Edison. Booker raised an eyebrow, looking downs t the small pond he lay in. "That idiot priest needs to see the difference between baptizing a man and drowning one," He mumbled. He passed through the small orchard, overhearing many people in prayer. Each wore white robes, similar to those the others had on the sewers. "Just 'cause a city flies, don't mean it ain't got it's fair share of fools," Booker mumbled under his breath, "Alright, well... I still had a girl to find."

He followed the bath to two doors, and upon opening them, he as surrounded by the city. It's beautiful sun rays shined on te floating buildings, and he saw a large statue not too far ahead of him. He was in complete awe. It was different than anything he'd ever seen before. He walked down the pavement, looking around at all the stores. The statue was of a man that he wasn't familiar with. He must've been the creator of this entire thing. I ain't ever heard of this before, Booker thought to himself. He walked down further, seeing children playing and men walking by. No one payed him any attention, and he liked that. Being low key was the best at this moment. The city was suspended in a way that he had no earthly idea how.

He decided that if he asked around, it would just make more problems for him. He wasn't the smart type, so having the concept of how this city floated would be impossible. Booker walked into a shop, and there was a small box off to the side with some type of binoculars. He looked into them, watching the small movie play out. It was of an old man, the founder of the city. His name was Zachary Comstock. The movie was of his "words" with an archangel, speaking of this great city. What a loud of bullshit, he thought. When the movie was over, Booker straightened up. He cleared his throat, hoping he didn't have to come in contact with this Comstock fellow.

A young man approached him, straightening his tie. "Hello sir. Need anything?" He asked. Booker shook his head, looking up at the man. He smiled, tipping his hat to him. Booker nodded towards him, and as he walked away, stared with irritation. He left the store, walking back down the road. As he reached an opening, with a beautiful sky out stretching before him, a small boy jogged in front of him. "Telegram for Mr. DeWitt!" He screamed. Booker stared down at him, his eyebrows furrowing. The boy reached up with a paper in his hand. "Telegram for you, Mr." Booker took it from his fragile hands, reading it to himself.

"DeWitt, don't alert Comstock to your presence. Whatever you do, do not pick number 77. Huh?"

He stared at the letter for minutes, then slowly slid it into his pocket. He cleared his throat, still dumbfounded by the note and how the kid knew who he was. He walked down the long pathway, a few gentlemen stopped to say hello to him. He wasn't used to people's friendliness, so it was a surprise. He lived in the most disgusting and rude places in the United States. He kept hearing of some raffle, and had seen signs all around. After seeing a small sign, he started to get curious. Walking up some steps, he arrived at a carnival like setting. There was several booths with games and things to see. Booker walked up to one of the booths, which was a shooting game. There was a carbine lying on the booth, and the man who stood in front of it announced to everyone.

"Step right up and try your hand at the Vox! Destroy them and win extra for shooting the anarchist Daisy Fitzroy!"

Booker snorted, walking silently away. He had no time for games. He passed by another booth, which a heavy set man, and a strange looking box beside him. "Come record your voice in the past and hear it in the future!" The man called. The sign read 'Voxophone.' Booker raised an eyebrow, staring at it. "Come try it, son!" The man said to him. "What the hell's a Voxophone?" The little box stopped recording, and played his voice back to him. He moved back slightly, eyeballing the heavy set man. "Just so were clear.. I ain't payin' for this," He said. The man chuckled. "Just a demonstration, sir." Booker walked off, heading for the exit to this place. It was blocked by a machine. He tried to buy a ticket to pass, but the man said it was no longer selling. Booker grumbled, rolling his eyes. "I don't have time for this," He mumbled.

A woman, who stood a few feet away, called him over. She had a basket of some kind of bottles that were glowing a bright green. "Give me one of those." The woman handed him one, grinning wildly. He sipped it, his curiosity growing. His body began to hum, and a green mist surrounded him. The woman mumbled things under her breath, and then the feeling subsided. He stared at himself for several minutes. There was an informational video that played after he drank it. It was almost immediate, and showed from a projector. "Take control of the mechanical enemy!" It announced, showing a man taking control of a turret with the green mist. He turned, looking over at the vending machine. Walking over to it, he held up his hand towards the machine. The from mist shot from his hands and a ghost floated around it. "Oh, my apologies! It's you, assemblyman Buford! I didn't recognize you!"

The machine allowed the door to open, and Booker stared, dumbfounded. He then smirked, straightening his vest. He passed through the door, the smirk of triumph still on his face. The twins, whom he knew he'd seen before, stood in front of him. The first twin wore a blackboard on his shoulders, and the female twin stood with a plate and a silver eagle on it. Booker had later realized these were the currency here. "Heads or tails?" Both twins asked. Booker stared with eyebrows raised. He leaned forward, picking up the silver eagle. "Tails." He flipped the coin and it fell on heads. The female added it to the charm board, which already had several strikes on it. "Chin up, there's always next time," She said to her twin brother, smiling. They walked off, and when Booker took his eyes off for a single second; they were gone. He stared after them, confused.

"This place is full of fools," He said to himself. He walked off down the long street, going to the raffle. The raffle took place in front of a large stage, and on it stood a tall man with a top hat. He had a large mustache on top of his thin lips. Booker approached the stage just as the man started the raffle. A young woman stood, calling to him. "Mister! Hey mister!" Booker looked down at her. She was a young, pretty thing, with a bowl of numbered balls. "No sale," He said dryly. But he smirked just slightly. The woman looked at him with a playful grin. "There's no charge for the raffle. Where have you been, living under a rock?" Booker chucked, shaking his head.

He took one of the balls, tossing it in his hand. He smirked down at te woman. He wasn't the flirting type, but when a lovely woman initiates the conversation, it's hard to resist. Booker enjoyed toying with people. He continued to toss the ball, but suddenly looked down. He read it, his smirk fading. "77." The woman grinned, winking at him. "That's a lucky number. I'll be rooting for you." The man with the too hat called her up to the stage, with the bowl of numbers. Booker felt his hands twitch. He remembered the warning he had received. Sighing, he cursed himself for his stupidity. "Let's see who the winner of the 1912 raffle!" The man cried. He ran his hands through the many numbers, pulling out one at random.

"Number seventy-seven!"


	4. False Shepherd?

_"Number seventy-seven!"_

Booker sighed, chuckling under his breath. "I'll be." It wasn't a surprise that his number was called. He hadn't listened to his warning from whoever sent him the telegram. He tried to keep his head low and not to attract attention. But the wonderful woman who have him the ball pointed him out. Booker snarled, cursing under his breath. The announcer looked down at him with wild eyes. Booker had seen him before in posters around town, and on the video he had been forced to watch. His name was Fink. A name that would soon bore into Booker's brain as a madman and a liar. "Congratulations!" Fink announced, "You win first throw!" Booker's eyebrow raised, and he stared around for any eve since of something to throw at. But the curtains drew back, and an interracial couple were tied to a backdrop.

Booker stared, unblinking and unmoving. He wasn't the moral type, but this wasn't anything he stood for. He gripped the ball in his hands, looking up at Fink. He wasn't racist, and he definitely wasn't a man who was afraid of some top hat wearing idiot. "I got something for you, son of a bitch," Booker growled. He lifted his hand to throw the ball at Fink when a guard grabbed his wrist. "It's him!" He screamed. Booker raised his eyebrow. The flashed the back of his hand, and he saw an unfamiliar mark to him he'd never seen before. The letters AD were tattooed on the back of his hand. "Well, well... Where'd you get that brand, boy? Dontcha know that makes you the infamous False Shepherd!" Booker stared with almost a humorous expression. "We're not lettin' another false shepherd in here, are we?" Fink roared up the crowd. He ushered the guards to do they're job, and Booker stared down at the baseball. He smirked, tossing it up just as the guard came at him with some kind of bladed weapon.

He grabbed the second guards head while they were distracted, shoving his face into the blades. He fell into his back with a large thud, the weapon in his face. Booker leaned down, yanking it from the dead body. His green eyes scanned the area, the familiar bloodlust boiling through him. A guard backed away slowly, but didn't get away fast enough. Booker drilled the weapon deep into his stomach, tossing him to the side. He marched through the sea of guards that came his way, picking up a pistol that one of them had carried. He reloaded it, grinning. The guards came at him from different areas. They jumped down from some skyline, using the weapon that Booker now held in his hands. He ignored his curiosity, taking them down one by one. The city outstretched to small roads, and he heard several guards screaming for someone. He couldn't hear them clearly over the sound of gunshots, but he decided it wasn't important. Until he stepped passed those iron doors.

They were scalding hot, and he started to sweat. "What the hell?" He questioned, looking around with confusion. There stood a man in a full metal suit, fire coming out of his hands. "The fireman!" He heard people screaming. The fireman charged towards him, throwing fireballs his direction. Booker jumped out of the way, firing at him. Hiding behind a box, he reloaded his gun, but cursed when a fireball landed right beside him and caught his arm. He jumped up, firing more shots at the strange man. After several shots, the tin man fell and exploded, leaving behind his ashes. Booker breathed in a sigh, pulling his gun in his holster. A bottle lay in the spot where the tin man fell. He picked it up, moving it in his hands. "Devil's Kiss?" He read, raising an eyebrow. "Huh. Well, bottoms up." He chugged it down, feeling a similar sensation from the last Vigor he drank. The fire burned his fingertips, and he looked down at his hands. They began to burn away to nothing but bone.

Booker screamed, but the pain quickly subsided. He swallowed, clearing his throat. "That wasn't no sample," He mumbled, coughing. He walked towards a bar, opening the broad doors. He made his way through the small building, his hands still burning from the Vigor. He decided her test it out later. Right now, he didn't have time to waste. As he entered the bar, he cursed under his breath. "Not you two again," He grumbled. The twins stood before him, bickering back and forth. "It seems we have company," said the male. "Seems we do indeed." Booker snarled, looking over at them. "Why are you following me?" He asked, irritatedly. "Why are you following us?" The make asked. Booker sighed, rolling his eyes. The female nudged a large bottle in his direction, and it glowed a bright yellow. He stared at it, and she quietly urged him to take it. He chugged it down, coughing violently. His body shook much differently than before, but he saw a yellow shield extend around him and disappear. "Surprising," The male murmurs. "Surprising it work?" The female asked him. The male shook his head. "Surprising it didn't kill him."

"But a magnetic shield around ones body could come in handy."

Booker stared between the two of them, eyebrows raised. He shrugged his shoulders, exiting the building towards the back. "Those two are ridiculous," He mumbled to himself. He fought his way through more Columbian cops, before coming to a building with an erie fog surrounding it. He stared at it, feeling a sense of darkness in what lay behind it. He walked on passed the large doors, and the inside was just as spooky. Crows flew all over the inside of the building, and a large statue of John Wilks Booth stood at the entrance. He looked with curiosity, wondering what this place was. He walked on, coming into a large chapel, with people dressed in long blue robes. They stood before a leader, who stood on a stage before the cross. Booker looked down at them, trying to find a way to exit without drawing attention, but the exit was to the left of the leader. He breathed a sigh, trying to sneak past. But he came to the bottom of the stairs when he stepped on a voxophone and it started playing.

He swallowed, looking around to see if anyone heard. All the men charged at him, waving bats at him. Booker pulled out his machine gun he had discovered not far from the bar, and he began firing. The leader came at him with a pistol, but he stood no match for Booker with his machine gun. Once the men were taken care if, Booker walked on. He came to the exit, which was an elevator. But before he entered it, a sound from the radio interrupted him. they spoke about him and the "incident" at the raffle. Booker laughed as the announcer spoke of him. "This man has malicious and evil intents. Do not be tempted. He is armed and dangerous."

"Damn right."

He punched the elevator button, going to the top of the building. The too of the building was some kind of chamber, and Booker didn't feel right about it. He went to a door, opening it. But something stopped it. A young, Chinese man was chained to a plank and crows started attaching him just as Booker opened the door. He winced, seeing the skin being ripped from his body. He quickly tore open the chained door, seeing a man in black stepping away. Booker charges after the man, but he quickly disappeared. He stood, dumbfounded, searching for the man. He reappeared again, attacking Booker. The large man pulled out his machine gun, shooting at him. But he kept disappearing, leaving crows behind. Booker fought him quickly, eventually wearing him down. When he collapsed, he dropped another bottle of Vigor. "Hmm... What's this?" Booker questioned, picking up the bottle. It flowed a bright blue, and a crow headpiece as the lis. He chugged it down, looking down at his hands.

A crow came and lurched in it, holding skin in its beak. Bookers head ached, but the feeling slowly passed. He wasn't sure what was up with all these "vigors", but he did know that they'd definitely come in handy. Especially, when he has no idea what Comstock has planned for him, or what is keeping the girl hidden. All he had were his guns, his skills, and these vigors. Booker sighed, his mind wavering over his options. There wasn't a damn thing he knew about this place, and everything was so overwhelming. But he didn't have time to think about it. He just had to get the girl and get back to New York, without getting into too much problems. But he had no idea what problems lay ahead with the girl, or his past, or the damn prophet behind all the deception.


End file.
